


We All Weak Masks

by irishgirlE



Series: We All Wear Masks [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Little Raoul, Minor Character Death, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:20:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17204981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishgirlE/pseuds/irishgirlE
Summary: Every great family is surrounded by rumours - that cousin is a bastard son, the brother is conspiring to kill, the sister murdered the maid, the uncle is a vampire. It is just, in the de Chagny family, one of those rumours is true.





	1. Chapter 1

Philippe de Chagny was far, far older than anyone would guess to look at. He had lived a longer life thus far than the oldest man alive, and yet he still had the youthful face that he had worn when he had been struck down by a demon in the dark. All those long, long years, and now he was here, watching as the young woman that he had loved as a niece, in the same way that he had come to love her father as an annoying younger brother, die.

 

At her side stood Guillaume de Chagny, his actual nephew, great-nephew, crying. He knew that she was dying too. He looked devastated.

 

And why shouldn’t he be, Philippe reflected, not only a little bitter. He was watching the woman he loved, perhaps, most in the world die. Most people only experienced it once. Their human hearts were only able it once. It was Philippe that was wrong, with his dry eyes and cold visage. His heart had hardened to stone over his many years alive.

 

Guillaume was crying as a husband should. Philippe appeared as uncaring as all monsters were.

 

“’Lippe?” Camille called out, weakly, ending her cry with weak coughs that wracked her frail body.

 

Philippe flew to her other side. “Oui, ma bichette?” He brushed an ice-cold hand over her burning skin.

 

Red spilt from the corners of her blue lips when she smiled at the endearment. Philippe needed blood. He thrived on it. Yet, he had never hated the sight of it more.

 

“Philippe,” Camille said, again, weaker still. “My father, my uncle, my brother, my friend,” she coughed. “You cared for me as though I was yours.”

 

Philippe grasped her frail hand. “You _are_ mine.” He flicked his eyes up to Guillaume’s stricken face. “You _both_ are.”

 

Camille coughed again. “I know I cannot ask more from you,” she gasped out.

 

“Anything,” Philippe promised, unthinkingly. She could ask almost from him, and he would grant it. Almost anything. But she would never ask. She pitied him too much to be so foolish.

 

“My girls,” Camille coughed. “Will you…?”

 

“Of course,” Philippe swore. “As though they were my own.”

 

“And my little…” Camille paused as a painful shudder ran through her. “Mon garcon? Mon petit loup?”

 

Philippe swallowed. He was a puppet to his little girl’s whims, even now, but could he bring himself to love her killer? Silently, Philippe berated himself. The babe was not a killer. He was only moments old. Alone. Without his father. Without his mother, forever. He needed his family. And if his dear mother wanted a bloodthirsty fiend as himself to be a part of that family, then who was he to disagree. “Je te promets,” he murmured. “Je l’aimerai, comme il est mon proper fils.”

 

Camille smiled. “Merci,” she gasped. Her eyes slipped shut.

 

“Camille?” Guillaume called, quietly. Then louder. And louder. As though he could call her back from the dead. “Mon coeur?”

 

Philippe turned away. His little girl was gone, while his boy cried over her. He couldn’t watch. He didn’t want to remember Camille as she was. Cold and lifeless, like him. He wanted to remember her happy and youthful, his little doe. He wanted to remember her in Marie and Vivienne, so young and already so like their mother. So young, and already alone.

 

He wanted to remember her in the face of her little boy. Her little wolf, she had called him. That was all she called him.

 

Behind him, a gasp. Philippe spun around. Camille stared up at the ceiling, unblinking, unseeing. “Raoul,” she breathed, but Philippe heard. “My Raoul. Je l’aime. Je vous aime tous.” It was her last breath. Her last breath, to tell them that she loved them. To name her motherless son.

 

Raoul de Chagny.

 

“Mon Coeur,” Guillaume murmured, brushing a hand over his wife’s face.

 

Philippe closed his eyes and turned away once more. Someone should tell little Raoul his name. Someone should ensure his wellbeing. Someone should hold the poor creature, tell him that he was loved.

 

 

Raoul de Chagny. Three hours old. Awake and staring.

 

Philippe peered down at him, in his crib. He didn’t have much experience with babies. Guillaume and Camille had never felt the need to put down Vivienne or Marie when they were babies, and, on the rare occasions that they were passed around to friends and family, Philippe had always stepped back and politely declined.

 

Guillaume’s mother had been wary allowing her husband’s estranged uncle anywhere near her son. That might have been for the best. He had been somewhat lacking in control at that time. It was entirely possible that he would have savaged the creature in a blink. And he never would have seen him grow up into an annoying, noble, courageous, heartbroken man.

 

He had never held a baby. His own mother had died at his birth. He had never had any younger siblings or cousins. Just like Raoul never would. His only uncle was infertile. His father would never love again. Perhaps, he would one day gain a niece or nephew, but until he had his own children, he would likely never hold a baby.

 

The creature babbled up at him.

 

Philippe blinked. “Excusez-moi, monsieur?”

 

He babbled again, more insistently. He truly was his mother’s son, Philippe reflected. Then his heart ached.

 

The child whined, loudly.

 

Philippe shushed it, automatically, only for it to repeat the noise. He sighed and scooped the child up into his arms. Instantly, the baby settled. Staring, somewhat more content, into his great-great-uncle’s youthful face.

 

“Hello, little Raoul,” Philippe whispered, captivated. It was an experience to be captivated. He had more experience doing the captivating. “I’m Philippe, I’m…” he paused. “I loved your mother. And she loved you. Loves you. As does your father. He’s just heartbroken at the moment.”

 

Philippe sucked in a deep breath, preparing himself. “You have just experienced a great tragedy, little Raoul. Your mother has passed on. She is no longer with us. She is… dead. Camille is dead.”

 

It seemed foolish to tell a baby of only a few hours old this. He was too young to understand anything, much less the weight and pain of his mother’s death. But Philippe needed to say it. He needed Raoul to know.

 

“But I’m here,” he promised, as he had promised Camille. “I’m… I’m your guardian angel, your friend, brother, father, whatever you need. As I was for her. No matter what, I love you. Je t’aime. Mon loup. My boy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oui, ma bichette - Yes, my darling  
> Mon garcon? Mon petit loup? - My boy? My little wolf?  
> Je te promets... Je l’aimerai, comme il est mon proper fils - I promise you... I will love him, like he is my own son  
> Merci - Thank you  
> Mon coeur - My heart (Term of Endearment)  
> Je l’aime. Je vous aime tous - I love him. I love you all  
> Excusez-moi, monsieur - Excuse me, mister


	2. Chapter 2

Raoul grew quickly, as expected. He took very much after his father, as expected. And he looked remarkably like his mother, unfortunately.

 

Guillaume had not dealt with his wife’s death well. He was not cruel, but he was not kind. Raoul didn’t seem to know his father very well. When people saw him and Philippe out, they would ask, sweetly, if he was Raoul’s papa, and Raoul would, patiently, say that he did not have a maman or papa. He had a Philippe.

 

Philippe would correct him, but, privately, he agreed.

 

Raoul spent his days trailing after his sisters, or the maids and cooks, or trying to catch Philippe’s coattails. He adored his sisters, and the staff, who all adored him, but he loved Philippe the most. Which was curious because Philippe had about as much time for him as anyone else did. Perhaps that was why he loved Philippe, Raoul was regularly shuffled off to someone else when he got underfoot, but Philippe let him hide under his desk or sprawl on his floor, playing imaginary games with imaginary friends.

 

He was doing that now. Philippe, for once, had no work and was, instead, watching the young boy. Raoul was nearly three now. Despite the difficulties surrounding his birth, and the sicknesses that regularly plagued him, he was only slightly smaller than the maid’s son. The maid’s son who seemed to prefer hiding and glaring at Raoul than entertaining his attempts at conversations.

 

Philippe frowned. “Raoul?”

 

The quiet chattering stopped. The small child rolled around until he was on his back, staring, upside down, at Philippe. “Oui”?

 

“Are you ever lonely?” He asked.

 

Raoul frowned, or he attempted to. He scrunched up his face in a shockingly similar expression to his father. “I’m never alone,” he reported.

 

“No, that’s not… Raoul,” Philippe tried again. “Would you like to meet other children?”

 

Raoul stared. “I’ve met plenty of people, ‘Lippe,” he stated patiently. “Like Madame Gabrielle’s son. He likes to play hide and seek, though he’s not very good.”

 

Philippe just suppressed a smile at Raoul’s comment. He was a smart boy, doubtlessly, he knew that little Christoph just didn’t like him, but had decided not to say anything. It seemed that he had learned something, waiting patiently at Philippe’s side while he dealt with the social niceties required as a Comte.

 

Officially, he was Guillaume’s brother, acting as Comte while his dear brother was still grieving. Truthfully, it didn’t look likely that Guillaume would ever leave his and Camille’s bedroom. He left for the funeral, and he would venture down to her grave on every anniversary, occasionally accompanied by little Raoul – but never on her death date. Raoul’s birthday.

 

Philippe loved Guillaume, but he did not trust him with Raoul on that day.

 

“Are you ever lonely, Philippe?” Raoul wondered.

 

Philippe took a moment to consider that. When he was a young man, he had spent every minute out with friends and family. He had cared little for his family title, and only for the social opportunities it awarded. Being unable to venture out into the sun had not been too difficult, at first, with his brother and sisters, and his close friends. But now he had precious few friends left who knew about him, even less with Guillaume so reclusive, and his days and nights spent ensuring that the de Chagny name did not fall to nothing before Raoul could inherit it.

 

It didn’t leave him with much time to make friends, with those of his kind or otherwise.

 

“Sometimes,” Philippe admitted. “But you and your sisters are good company.” Just like your mother was, he didn’t say. Raoul still didn’t know much of his mother. He didn’t miss her. If anything, Philippe thought that Raoul disliked the woman that he had never met, if only for her death. He had a father who he didn’t know, all because of the mother he couldn’t. Philippe wondered if life would be easier for Guillaume if Raoul had taken on his likeness, instead of his mother’s.

 

“But do you have any other friends?” Raoul asked. “Michel the Stable Boy says that I will make good friends when I am big, but you are big. Do you have any big friends?” He queried.

 

Philippe frowned. “Of course.”

 

“But,” Raoul paused. “But, _old_ big friends? Like, one’s that you’ve known for a long time? Because Michel says that his best friend is one he’s known for a long time.”

 

Philippe made a mental note to check out this ‘Michel’ and why Raoul was spending so much time with him. Raoul was too young to ride on a horse, there was a very likely reason as to why a boy like Raoul was wandering out in the stables, but surely, he was too young for that too? Perhaps he should ask Guillaume. “I do know a woman who… yes, Raoul. I do have an old friend.”

 

Raoul rolled over and sat up. “Can I meet her?” He asked, eagerly.

 

“Why?”

 

“Vivi and Marie say that they think that you should have a Madame, because you want them to have a Monsieur.”

 

Philippe rolled his eyes. His girls meant very well, or at least he thought that they did, but had they really recruited Raoul to get him a girlfriend? Truly? “Well, I do not intend to find a ‘Madame’ for some time, but, yes, I suppose you shall meet her. I have been neglecting our friendship, and I’m sure that she would be delighted to meet you.”

 

Raoul perked up. “Really?”

 

Philippe wondered, again, how lonely Raoul must be. “Yes, Raoul. How do you feel about the Opera?”


	3. A Night At The Opera

The Opera was a big and glamorous as Raoul ever remembered it being. His visits here were infrequent. Whenever Philippe grew tired of papers and walls, he would snatch him up and they would travel to the Opera on foot, Philippe enveloped in a cloak and Raoul skipping as far as he dared, longing to run and explore everything.

Everything was so big and exciting and loud. So many people were there and had been there. Raoul just wanted to take it all in. Philippe had laughed when he explained that. He told him that he was growing up so fast. Raoul didn’t fully understand what that meant. Just like he didn’t understand a lot of what Philippe did. But he trusted Philippe, whatever he was to him.

Raoul had heard whispers. People forgot he was there because he was so small, although he was almost the right size, according to the family physician. People didn’t seem to realise that he could hear them when they whispered in the next room.

They whispered a lot. About him. About Philippe. About who he was. They said that he way truly Philippe’s son. They said that the previous Comte had been Philippe’s father, and Philippe was waiting for the current Comte to die so he could steal the fortune. They said that he was the Comte’s lover. They said that he was a monster who didn’t age, and that he had guarded the family for years.

Raoul didn’t believe any of it. His Philippe was his Philippe, and that was all that mattered.

Well, Raoul internally amended, Philippe was his, and Madame La Sorelli’s.

The woman in question glanced down from Philippe’s nervous grin to beam down at him. “Hello, Little Wolf,” she cooed.

“Hello, Madame Sorelli,” he returned, kissing her outstretched hand like he had seen Philippe do on many occasions.

La Sorelli squealed. “Oh Philippe, he is precious. You must be careful no one tries to take him,” she warned. “He is far too beautiful to be forgotten or unloved.”

Philippe nodded. “I don’t intend to let anyone take him away for quite some time. And when that time comes… I will ensure that he is protected.”

Raoul stared up at the adults while they talked in riddles. He didn’t like riddles. They were too confusing. Like the things that Michel tried to teach him.

Something caught Raoul’s eye across the foyer. He noticed that the adults were paying attention to each other now, absorbed in their conversation about Raoul’s father and about the promising new soprano in the Opera. Effortlessly, Raoul slipped away, approaching his target.

A man had slipped away behind a curtain, and he had yet to reappear. He had been wearing a strange, pretty mask and a long, flowing cape. Like a king.

Raoul approached the curtain carefully. He cast another glance back at Philippe, who still hadn’t noticed his absence, then, without hesitating, he darted behind the curtain to find a large passage. He gasped. “Wow!”

Raoul crept down the passage carefully, wary of any traps. His sisters liked to leave traps for him. As did Michel. And Christoph, but he wasn’t as nice, and Madame Gabrielle yelled when he did.

“Bonjour, Monsieur!” He called. “I saw you come in here.”

Raoul didn’t hear anyone move, and that’s how he knew that the man had heard him. Philippe did the same thing. He froze. Raoul knew what it sounded like.

“What’s your name, Monsieur? My name is Raoul.”

The man emerged from the darkness of the tunnel, cloak covering his body and mask covering his face. He glared down at Raoul. “Who are you, hmm?” He growled.

Raoul beamed up at the man. “I’m Raoul,” he said, cheerfully. He didn’t get to meet many new people. He held up his hand. “I like your mask.”

The man blinked. “Thank you, Raoul,” he tested the name, like he had never heard it. After a minute’s hesitation, he took Raoul’s hand. His were large and hard. Like Michel’s, but larger. “And to answer your question, I’m Erik.”

Raoul smiled. “Erik,” he pronounced. “That’s a nice name. Do you know La Sorelli? Philippe loves her, I think. She’s my friend. Do you want to be my friend?”

Erik blinked. A smile stretched, barely there, under his mask. “Yes. Thank you, Raoul. And I know of La Sorelli. She is an exceptional dancer.”

“Have you ever heard her sing?” Raoul asked. “She sings sometimes, but not when anyone else is there, because she’s not allowed. But Philippe is allowed to hear it, and me, but not my sisters or Michel. I like La Sorelli because she sings nicely, and because she told me a ghost story, would you like to hear it, Monsieur Erik?” Raoul babbled.

Erik nodded, taking a minute to comprehend the stream of consciousness that was Raoul, as his sisters often put it. “Yes, tell me this ghost story.”

“She says that there lives a man – a ghost, a phantom – under the Opera. He uses secret passages and tunnels, and he writes music and annoys the staff by playing tricks on them. She thinks it’s funny. She says that no one knows what the man looks like, but she hears him sing too sometimes. She says that they must be family, because no one else can hear them sing. She wants to meet him, but she says that he will come out when he’s ready.” Raoul inhaled a deep breath of air, then frowned. “She tells it better. What do you think, Monsieur?”

Erik laughed, shocked. It rumbled in his chest for a moment before it escaped his mouth. “I… uh, I think it is a very nice story, Raoul, but in case it is true, you should be very careful before you venture into tunnels like this. This Phantom of the Opera might hurt you.”

“What about you, Monsieur?” Raoul worried. He could hear Philippe calling his name, annoyed. “Could the Phantom hurt you? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Erik smiled. He bent down level with Raoul. “Don’t worry about me, little one. The Phantom will not hurt me. I know all his tricks.” He winked.

Raoul smiled back, relived. “That’s good,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of friends.” He raised his arms. “My Philippe is looking for me, will you bring me to him? He doesn’t like it when I wander off alone. He worries. He says that we need to be careful around people, because they might not like us.” Raoul frowned. “People don’t like Philippe because they say he looks scary, but he’s not, he’s really nice. Don’t be afraid of him.”

Erik stared at Raoul’s arms. “I’m not afraid of… of your Philippe, Raoul. But you should be wary around people you don’t know. The world is cruel to those it does not like.” He sighed and lifted Raoul up into his arms.

Raoul giggled when the fabric of the cape touched his neck. It tickled. Up here, he could see Erik’s mask much clearer. Without asking, he reached out to touch it.

“Please don’t.” Erik grasped his wrist, firmly, stopping his probing hand.

Raoul frowned. “Is it hard to put on? It looks cold, is it?”

“It is fine,” Erik replied, something sharp in his voice. Like his father’s often was.

“Why are you wearing it?” Raoul asked, quietly, as Erik carried him back up the passage.

“I have to,” Erik spat. “The world makes me.”

Raoul’s frown deepened. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Monsieur. The world cannot make you go against who you are. That’s not fair. Not to you, not to anyone.”

Erik sighed. The shoulder that Raoul was leaning on relaxed. “Unfortunately, life’s not fair, Raoul. But thank you for saying that.”

They reached the curtain and Erik lowered him to the ground. Raoul held out a hand for him. “I want you to meet my Philippe. He doesn’t like me to be alone.”

Erik hesitated. “Raoul…”

“Please,” Raoul begged, flashing his pleading expression up at Erik. It was the expression he used when Vivienne was being particularly mean, or when he wanted Philippe’s attention. It usually worked.

For a moment, Erik appeared to be immune, but then, with a weighty sigh, he relented. “Fine,” he muttered, sounding surprisingly nervous. He grasped Raoul’s little hand.

Raoul grinned and pulled Erik out from behind the curtain with surprising strength. “Philippe! Philippe! I made a friend!” He called.

When Philippe saw them, several expressions crossed his face in under a second, too many for Raoul to guess at. In the end, he settled on relief. “Raoul,” he sighed. “You can’t go running off like that. Something could have happened to you.”

“I made a friend,” Raoul repeated. He turned around and pointed back at Erik, who was attempting to retreat back into the shadows. “He was hiding.”

Philippe took a step closer. He held out a hand for Raoul to take and dragged him up into his arms by his hand as soon as Raoul was close enough. He tucked Raoul’s head under his chin with one hand and protectively hid his nephew under his other arm.

“Who are you?” He demanded.

Erik froze under the intense scrutiny of the older de Chagny. “My name is Erik,” he stuttered out. “I work here.”

Philippe glanced over his shoulder at La Sorelli. “Can you verify that?” He wondered.

La Sorelli approached cautiously and peered at Erik from behind Philippe. She knew better than to chance getting in between him and his prey. “Of course, Philippe. That’s Erik. He acts as the composer’s assistant. The mask is fairly distinct, no?”

Erik frowned and his hand twitched towards his mask, but he froze when Philippe’s eyes zeroed in on the movement.

“Why do you wear the mask?” Philippe demanded.

“He says that the world makes him,” Raoul piped up, having wiggled out of Philippe’s iron grip and twisted to hold onto his guardian’s neck. “He says that the world is cruel to those it does not like. You say the same, Philippe.”

Philippe cast Erik another careful glance, loosening his hold on Raoul from a vice like grip to a gentler hug. “Is that true, Erik?” He said. “Does the world not like you? Or has little Raoul made a mistake?”

Erik swallowed, eyes flicking from Philippe to La Sorelli to Raoul. “The world does not like my face,” he spat. “I have to cover it up. It does not matter what genius I am capable of. My face is the only thing that people see.”

Philippe hummed. “People are often unable to look past what they first see,” he agreed. He sniffed. “I would suggest a better mask. Or, perhaps, avoiding acting like a creature of the night if you do not want to be seen as a monster.”

Erik glanced at Raoul, curled up in the arms of a terrifying looking man and looking utterly unconcerned by any of it. He nodded once. "Perhaps," he agreed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oui, ma bichette - Yes, my darling  
> Mon garcon? Mon petit loup? - My boy? My little wolf?  
> Je te promets... Je l’aimerai, comme il est mon proper fils - I promise you... I will love him, like he is my own son  
> Merci - Thank you  
> Mon coeur - My heart (Term of Endearment)  
> Je l’aime. Je vous aime tous - I love him. I love you all  
> Excusez-moi, monsieur - Excuse me, mister


End file.
